Coastal Fury Boxset (1-3)

by Matt Lincoln

  Holm and I survived the attack, but that inferno down the block was the car with not just the prisoners, but a young cop and his training officer as well.

  9

  With all the tools at our disposal, no one had been able to track the helicopter that picked up the assassin. What pissed me off was that the operation behind the initial attack took out two of Metro’s police officers with the suspects.

  As bad as that was, we were damned lucky they didn’t take out the bar instead. One person on a roof had exactly one shot, and it had to be prepped in advance. It made sense that they took out the gunmen instead of a bunch of law enforcement types, but the bazooka was overkill. Literally.

  Holm and I took the phone into MBLIS despite the late hour. The streets were uncharacteristically quiet, no doubt due to the news of an exploding car and mystery chopper that someone caught on video and uploaded on YouTube.

  “We need to get more people on security at the hospital,” I said as the streetlights flashed by. “MBLIS and Metro both.”

  “Metro has two or three guys outside her room. They’re gonna get pissy about us sticking our noses in.”

  “Screw that noise,” I told him. “Our target doesn’t care about jurisdiction. All the entrances need people in plainclothes. We don’t want to scare the civvies.”

  Holm made a call to Diane Ramsey while I drove. I hoped it wasn’t too late to protect Luci and everyone around her. By the time we arrived at MBLIS and dropped off Rucker’s phone, the arrangements were made.

  The lab was shut down for the night, so after we delivered the phone, I dropped Holm off at his condo and went home for the night for some shuteye. Even though I saw some heavy shit in the military, things like that kid and his training officer getting blown up got to me. I slept in fits and starts as the scene from that night blended with others I’d been in. By morning, I was more than ready to get going.

  I arrived at the office just before Holm. He looked like hell. I suppose I didn’t look much better. We caffeinated on bad coffee on the way downstairs to see what our crack team had found on the phone.

  Bonnie and Clyde weren’t just great lab rats. Bonnie was into various types of technology, and Clyde, well, he enabled her by taking some of her physical evidence work so she could help us with specific issues. Like cracking phones.

  “You really told him his phone was hacked?” she asked Holm.

  “It’s all hacking to us non-geeks,” he told her. “I wasn’t wrong, was I?”

  She blew out a breath in exasperation. “I keep telling you, the bad kind of hacking is called ‘cracking.’ Rucker’s phone was cracked, and it was cracked good.” She pointed to a screen full of code that meant no more to me than the Dead Sea Scrolls. “I traced it back to the first crime scene at the docks. With all the wi-fi and phone-to-phone communication ability, it wouldn’t have been difficult for them to get into Metro’s system through one under-protected phone. My guess is it was done by whoever scuttled the Somewhat There.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a ‘Who’s on First’ joke at all,” I muttered.

  “Why didn’t they go through one of our phones?” Holm asked. “We were there also.”

  Bonnie crossed her arms, the arms that had won her the bottle of Michter’s that sat untouched on her desk and in full view of anyone who wandered into the lab.

  “Rucker’s phone wasn’t as protected as yours, which was why you didn’t even get the email,” she said. “MBLIS provides levels of encryption that make the NSA jealous. Your phones are solid.” She pulled up an image of the document in question. “Anyway, what Rucker received was a PDF of a court order doctored to show the gunmen were protected as members of the Barbados Diplomatic Staff.”

  “In other words, we only thought they had diplomatic immunity.” I ran my hands over my face. “They almost got away because we fell for it at first. I’m getting old.”

  “Knock it off, Marston,” my boss said with a snort as she walked in from the hall. “You’re only thirty-six.”

  She was a few years older and had been at the department that much longer than I. Her promotion to director over my application was likely due to her seniority. As much as I was relieved not to get the job, sometimes it was difficult to reconcile Birn’s first partner as our boss.

  “That’s no excuse—”

  “It is in this case,” Diane said as she cut me off with a dismissive wave. “Because this went way higher than Rucker. Whoever did this managed to get pretty far up the chain because the email originated from the chief of police’s account, and we can confirm his email wasn’t faked.”

  “So when Rucker called to confirm, his boss also thought it was real…” I mumbled. “It came back as real.”

  “Yeah,” Diane replied. “In fact, as I started calling up the chain, we realized the infection has spread all the way to the top. Their IT guys are working double-time to fix this and confirm nothing sensitive got accessed. So far, it looks like the only thing the hacker did was send a few emails, but we can’t be too sure.”

  “Should we worry about this happening again? Or to one of us?” Holm had a thoughtful look.

  Bonnie shook her head. “Our firewalls and antiviruses can catch pretty much any attempt at something like this. Besides, now that we’re aware of this, we can go to the vault and investigate. I’ll get someone from our cybercrimes unit to handle this. What concerns me more is that whoever cracked Rucker’s phone was physically present at the crime scene.”

  “We need the surveillance feed from that night.” I tried to remember if I saw anyone of note that night, but only the major players came to mind. “I don’t think the perps from last night were there.”

  “Funny thing,” Diane said. “We tried to pull the feed earlier today when certain people weren’t at the office.” She glowered at Holm and me. “It was gone. There were no traces.”

  “The same hacker?” I ignored Bonnie’s long-suffering sigh at my use of the word. Everyone said, “hacker,” as far as I knew.

  “Probably,” she answered. “We know that person was on-scene long enough to get to Rucker’s phone somehow.”

  I checked my watch. “We gotta go. Wheels up in an hour, and Muñoz and Birn still need to do preflight.” I grinned at Holm. “We’re the bag handlers.”

  Holm groaned good-naturedly.

  Diane reached up and patted his shoulder. “You’ll live, Robbie.” She looked over to me. “You’ll be met in Bridgetown by Inspector Tomás Forde. He owes me a couple favors and has proven trustworthy.”

  “We’re not going straight to the Royal Barbados Police?”

  She shook her head. “Forde has been working with INTERPOL. He can guide you through the current situation. We don’t know who our trafficker has in his pockets. Forde will help you navigate the worst of the corrupt officials in Barbados.”

  “Most of the islands have corruption,” I scoffed.

  “And most agents listen to their bosses,” Diane countered. “Now listen, you’re flying out on our new plane,” she reminded us. “That is a brand new plane. Eight. Million. Dollars. Not a scratch, Ethan. Not. One. Scratch.”

  “Why are you singling me out?” I held up my hands in feigned innocence. “I’m just a passenger.”

  “I know,” she said, “and knowing that doesn’t make me feel one ounce better.”

  10

  The King Air 350i was being fueled in front of its hanger when we got there. Muñoz began preflight while Birn helped us load gear for the assignment. The twin-turboprop engines whirred to life. There were eight passenger seats and a cargo area in the back, and the leather and new-plane smells mingled in a great way.

  Each of us brought a carry-on in case we were there for more than the day or needed to blend in. For the time being, we wore touristy clothes with Hawaiian shirts that concealed our holsters. The heavier gear was stored in the cargo area.

  “So this is our new ride,” I whistled as I carried a weapons case into the cabin. “The Pen
tagon finally thinks we’re worth acknowledging?”

  Birn hummed as he lashed some hard cases into a storage area at the back. He stood and flashed a kid-in-a-candy-store grin.

  “It’s a sweet ride with special sauce.” At my look, Birn added, “Don’t ask.” He went back to humming and made his way to the cockpit where Muñoz was waiting.

  “What did he say?” Holm asked. “I missed the last part.”

  I doubted that but chose to humor him. “This plane has ‘special sauce,’ don’t ask.’”

  We settled in for the nearly six-hour flight. I didn’t mind flying, but I liked boats better. Boats didn’t fall out of the sky. Some boats sink, but that doesn’t mean you have to die. A plane crash almost always means you do. That was something I had to get over in the Navy, and later, when para jumping with the SEALs. Didn’t mean I had to love flying though.

  We’d barely been in the air for an hour when Holm fell asleep, but I stared out the window at the Caribbean. I couldn’t help imagining the Dragon’s Rogue’s sails up in the shifting blue and turquoise seas. Where cargo haulers and cruise ships dock today, great wooden galleons and brigantines creaked into ports primitive by modern standards. I wondered what Lord Finch-Hatton would have thought of his descendant armed and flying over that same sea in a metal tube.

  At the same time, I wondered how many ships and planes carried victims of trafficking. The spots here and there below belonged to various cargo and cruise ships. Where the Dragon’s Rogue sailed, diesel-powered engines churned through the water with comparative ease and carried everything imaginable, including people. I hated that the gorgeous sea never stopped being used to move human cargo. At least we had a chance to put an end to one operation in Barbados.

  It was midday when we touched down in Bridgetown. The tower directed us toward a row of hangers. A lone figure stood in a light-colored suit and a coordinating, wide-brimmed hat, and he hustled up to the plane as the engines wound down. I released the rear cabin door as soon as Muñoz gave me a thumbs up.

  “I’m Inspector Forde,” the man shouted over the slowing turboprops. “Let me aboard before you deplane.”

  Holm was just inside the opening and had a tablet with Forde’s face on the screen. It matched our greeter. I waved the inspector up the stairs that were built into the door. He pulled the door up and closed and rushed to the cockpit. Muñoz spun in her seat, and her hand went to her side.

  “Easy,” I called up to them. “This is Inspector Forde.”

  She relaxed her arm but not her posture.

  “What’s so important you couldn’t wait until we parked?” she demanded.

  “Your safety,” Forde answered. He pointed toward the third hanger in. “Your airplane will go in that hanger. This is the only private flight in from Miami. Given the nature of your mission, I suspect you wish to keep quiet.”

  I gave him a long look and then shrugged.

  “Let’s get Ramsey’s baby out of the sun,” I said. “Remember, no scratches, everyone.”

  “Yeah, no scratches,” Muñoz grumbled. She faced forward and worked with Birn to get the plane in place for one of the tow tractors to park the King Air in its hangar. “We’ll stay and keep an eye on her, Marston. Call if you need backup.”

  “Will do,” I said as Holm and I got off the plane before it was in the hangar.

  Forde took us behind the structure to where he’d parked his silver Nissan Patrol. We loaded in and headed toward the middle of Bridgetown.

  “Director Ramsey told me you are looking for a man called ‘Squealy Sealy’?” Forde asked.

  I turned that question around on him. “Do you know him?”.

  “Heard the name, but I don’t know him.” Forde tapped the steering wheel. “My informants might know a few things. Do you have cash?”

  “We just got off the plane,” Holm complained. “Unless we’re going to an exchange, we got nothing.”

  “American cash,” Forde said. “Bajan dollars are worth half of yours. Green twenties go a long way toward getting information.”

  It wasn’t like I expected to get information for free. I always kept twenties on me for that reason, but something about Forde’s jaunty presumption irritated the hell out of me. I tried to keep in mind that he was the local expert as I pulled three or four bills from my wallet and then stuck them in my front pocket. In the back of the car, Holm did the same.

  Forde drove us past rows of brightly painted buildings and down narrow streets with more rundown structures. Eventually, he parked near a busy market.

  “One of my contacts runs a souvenir shop,” Forde informed us. “He hears things and might know Sealy.”

  We merged with the afternoon wanderers and followed the inspector to a hole-in-the-wall shop. The fare was as chintzy as one might expect, with knickknacks and cheaply printed tees on sad display. A hunched, wrinkled man sat behind the counter with an old electric fan blowing the shop’s stale air into his face. He looked up at Forde with annoyance.

  “Leave me alone,” he complained. “I done nothing to no one lately.”

  “Ah, Eli, don’t embarrass me in front of my American friends.” Forde flashed a brilliant smile at the unimpressed proprietor. “They’re looking for someone you might know.”

  Eli shifted and tapped his fingers on the counter, not unlike my drumming on Mike’s bar the night before. I walked up to him and flashed my creds. Holm did the same.

  “We’re looking for someone named Sealy,” I said.

  “Lots of people with that name,” Eli told me. He shifted some more, and the tapping stopped. “I don’t know everyone on this island. Go bother someone else.”

  Eli stood, but I slapped a twenty on the counter. He eased back into what I now saw was a plastic patio chair. Classy.

  “Does ‘Sealy the Squealy’ mean anything?” I asked.

  Eli stiffened and looked to Forde. “You shouldn’t bring me these people,” he said. “They drive customers away. I have nothing for you.”

  I brought out another twenty, but Eli refused to look at me. Forde glared at his informant and then turned on his heel.

  “This was a waste of time,” he told us. “Let’s go.”

  Forde took us to two more of his sources with similar results. By the time we spoke with the last one, the inspector had lost his cheerful demeanor. I cheered on the inside. That forced smile made me want to spit screws.

  “One last try,” he said as we approached a man who stood at the end of a dock, fishing. He lowered his voice as he glanced at us. “This one has to have something.”

  To the figure ahead, Forde called out, “Hey, Samuel.”

  The fisherman was slow to answer Forde’s greeting. He was a thin white man of average height and wore a beat-up Panama hat over graying hair that hung to his shoulders. An unlit cigar hung from the corner of his mouth and bobbed up and down as he took his time reeling in the line. I wanted to hurry him, but Forde put a hand out and shook his head.

  “Samuel moves at his own pace,” he whispered. “The best way to get information is to allow him his space.”

  Holm let out an exasperated sigh, and I wasn’t any happier. The sun was getting low, and we only had so much time to check out leads and maybe get some sleep before we had to return to Miami early the next morning.

  “Tomás.” The fisherman’s baritone voice was wispy but steady. “Bring your friends closer and introduce them.”

  I glanced at Holm. This character had a rough British accent. There were more than a few British and American expats living in Barbados. Given the rampant sex tourism in the tiny nation, some were certain to have knowledge of trafficking, even if they weren’t directly involved. If we were lucky, this informant might help.

  “Special Agents Marston and Holm from MBLIS,” Forde announced. It felt like being introduced to a dignitary. “They’re looking for a man called Squealy Sealy.”

  “Is that so?”

  Samuel handed the rod to Forde and removed the intact ci
gar from his mouth. He tucked the cigar into a frayed shirt pocket and studied Holm and me. Despite being of a similar height to Samuel, I felt like I was being evaluated by the school principal. I had some unusual criminal contacts during my career, but Samuel was… disconcerting.

  “We believe he’s a middle man of sorts.” I met his eye square on. “Any information you have will be very helpful.”

  “I’m sure it would,” he said. He nodded to Holm. “You are this man’s partner, Agent Holm?”

  At six-two, Holm was taller than Samuel, but the Englishman’s lithe pace was reminiscent of a tiger on the hunt. Everything about this man told me he had once been a warrior.

  “I am, and this Sealy is important to our case.” Holm stepped closer to my side. “As soon as you tell us what you know, you can get back to your fishing.”

  Samuel’s laugh echoed across the dock.

  “I like you, Agent Holm. To the point. Very well.” Samuel retrieved his pole from Forde. “Agustin Sealy. This time of day, you’ll find him at the east edge of the red-light district. Black man, orange hair. Wears a baseball hat. A most tacky individual.” He placed the cigar back in his mouth and grinned. “You have a most pleasant evening, agents.”

  Samuel turned his back on us and cast his line out to the water.

  11

  Sharp lights kept the oncoming night at bay in the red-light district. Narrow streets with three- and four-story buildings invited the shadows back in. Bridgetown’s most popular tourist activity thrived in this home of legal prostitution. Signs for a sex-workers’ political party were posted next to ads for other… services.

  “Yes, it’s legal here, but there are regulations,” Forde told us as we canvassed for Sealy. “The question one must ask is how much it will take to bribe the right authorities to ignore violations.”